


Forget Me Not, O Lord!

by doctormccoy



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Character Death, Due to BOFA at any rate, M/M, Post-BOFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormccoy/pseuds/doctormccoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin would always associate the colour of forget-me-nots with Thorin's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget Me Not, O Lord!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_northstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_northstar/gifts).



> Inspired by a series of Dwalin/Thorin art by Ladynorthstar, which I hopefully did some justice to. 
> 
> ([Childhood](http://ladynorthstar.tumblr.com/post/48484004182/dwalin-picked-some-blue-forget-me-not-because-they)) ([Teenage Years](http://ladynorthstar.tumblr.com/post/49720278178/to-dwalin-forget-me-nots-are-and-will-always-be%22)) ([Young Adults](http://ladynorthstar.tumblr.com/post/49798032355/another-chapter-in-the-forget-me-nots-saga)) ([Death](http://ladynorthstar.tumblr.com/post/49866676052/after-thorins-death-dwalin-never-stopped-coming))
> 
> I stuck with Thorin's age as being 195 at BOFA, as it was in the book, and decided to have Dwalin being roughly the same age, for the sake of making it easier to create a timeline.

It was fifty years to the day that Dwalin's heart stopped beating.

Fifty years to the day that his reason for living drew their final breath.

They had been young, so very young, the first time he gifted Thorin a handful of flowers, their beards still a distant dream and feet clumsy with youth. The dirt clumped roots still hung on to the ends of the stems and his hands were crusted with the earth from digging them up. He fidgeted awkwardly, the purple-blue flowers hidden behind his back as he looked away, afraid to meet Thorin's eyes. His Prince, still so young and bright eyed, without decades of poverty and suffering to haunt his steps, grinned toothily at him with all the excitement of a child knowing he was about to get a gift, trying to peek around Dwalin's shoulder.

"What's that?" he'd asked, clearly amused by Dwalin's stuttering, though nowhere near as amused as Dwalin's older brother Balin was, standing nearby and watching with a secret smile on his face.

Dwalin had been so embarrassed. He'd seen the flowers growing by the outer gate and thought the lovely colour matched so perfectly with the blue of Thorin's eyes that he just _had_ to show him. Now that he was here, though, with the blossoms clutched between his fingers, he realized that it wasn't exactly befitting of a Prince to be given something as silly as _flowers._

He'd insisted it was nothing and tried to escape with his dignity intact, but not before he was tackled face first into the stone by said Prince and the flowers wrenched free from his hands. Pinned as he was, with Thorin seated oh so comfortably in the middle of his back, he had waited for the inevitable mocking laughter. Instead, though, he was met with silence, and he insisted to this day it only took him a minute to work up the courage to look over his shoulder to gauge the other dwarf's reaction.

He was pretty sure his heart had stopped beating then, but this time it was due to the breath taking beauty of the smile Thorin wore as he admired the slightly crushed blossoms he was holding. 

Many years later, Thorin would tell him that it was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever received. As a Prince, he had plenty of fine clothes and jewels and weapons, but those were the only flowers he had ever been given in his lifetime. Dwalin had puffed up with faint pride, of course. It wasn't every day you were told ythat ou had given your beloved a gift so unique and unmatched, after all.

The next time he brought Thorin a bundle of the bewitching blue buds was the day he had been officially named Thrain's Heir. The ceremony had been as beautiful as expected, despite the quiet scoffing of lords and ladies about an Heir to the throne with little more than fuzzy stubble gracing his cheeks at this age. His beard had grown in thick and lush a few years later, of course, as if to spite all their comments, but Dwalin could tell the comments had not gone unheard by all. 

It was worth the scrapes on his hands and the dirt smudging his only formal outfit to see Thorin's face lighting up at the sight of the small purple-blue flowers in Dwalin's grasp. 

That night Thorin had let Dwalin braid the blossoms into his midnight-black hair.

That night Thorin had kissed Dwalin when the taller dwarf's gaze had lingered just a moment too long on the full swell of his mouth. 

That night, Dwalin, son of Fundin, became Dwalin, Consort to the Prince Under the Mountain.

It seemed, then, that they had their entire lives together to look forward to, and all the time in the world to enjoy one another's company.

But then Smaug had come, Erebor was taken from them, and Thorin's smile lost along with it. 

His beloved had become weighted down with the responsibility of protecting his people, especially as the gold lust continued to plague his father and grandfather. The darkness inside him only grew after the battle to reclaim Moria, and its veins of gold and mithril, went sour. The orcs had been defeated, but the cost to Thorin and their people had been astronomical. Thror and Thrain had been lost to the sweeping blade of the Pale Orc, and his younger brother Frerin felled by an arrow. 

It had seemed to Dwalin he had lost his Thorin forever to the fierce warrior Prince that slayed Azog the Defiler and turned the tide of the battle single handedly. 

But then a gift from Mahal himself graced their lives in the form of a tiny, squalling infant. 

Fili had been so small when he was born Dwalin feared that the babe would not survive his first night. But the stubbornness of the line of Durin was not to be underestimated, and when Dwalin had emerged from the room he now shared with the exiled Prince the following morning, he was greeted by the sight of Thorin wandering in circles around the small sitting room, rocking a sleeping Fili in his arms.

The mohawked warrior had to lean against the wall to keep himself upright at the sight of the gentle smile on his One's face as he cradled the infant close, softly humming a lullaby for his nephew. His blue eyes were bright in the light of the morning sun streaming through the window, and Dwalin felt his breath stolen away. 

Later that afternoon he would sneak a bunch of purple-blue blossoms from the garden of one of Dis' neighbours. He had crept up behind his love as Thorin dressed for the forge and swept his thick black hair aside to tuck a bud behind his ear, pressing a soft kiss to the pulse point behind his ear. 

Thorin had almost laid him out flat in surprise at being snuck up on, before realizing it was Dwalin and relaxing, amused by the sight of the flowers in his Consort's hand.

"Still, after all this time?" he had asked, and Dwalin had rested his chin on Thorin's shoulder, a fond look on his face.

"After all this time," he had promised.

Thorin had kissed him breathless, and if the Prince was a little disheveled and his clothing askew when he departed for the forge, Dis was either tired enough or amused enough not to comment on it.

All of that seemed so long ago, now, as Dwalin stood beside the marble tomb that housed his beloved One, the ever present bouquet of blue blossoms clutched between his fingers. 

"They're called forget-me-nots, you know. Or so our Burglar says," Thorin had told him when Dwalin had presented him with an armful of the flowers as he lay in his sickbed, his torso wrapped in bandages from wounds received during the Battle of Five Armies, as it later came to be known. 

"How could anyone ever forget you, my King?" Dwalin had teased, making a mess of Thorin's hair, much to the dwarf's displeasure.

He'd made it up to him once his wounds were healed enough to engage in what Oin referred to as "vigorous physical activity".

Dwalin smiled and laid the bundle of forget-me-nots against the breast of the marble carving, unable to help the tears that began to slide down his cheeks.

They had enjoyed one hundred and four happy years together after Erebor had been reclaimed. One hundred and four years in the light of Thorin's smile. 

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain died of old age on a pleasant spring day in his two hundred and ninety ninth year surrounded by those he loved. 

The last thing he had seen before his passing was the tear streaked face of his beloved, and the bright blue of a single blossom as Dwalin tucked it behind his ear. 

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain died with a smile on his face and Dwalin's name on his lips. 

Fili had inherited the throne, and with Kili at his side as his chief Advisor and the captain of his Guard, the pair ruled fairly and their reign was a prosperous and happy time for the Kingdom. Thorin was laid beneath the mountain with his ancestors, and the marble relief was so expertly carved that Dwalin could almost pretend his King was merely sleeping.

Every passing day, Dwalin waited for his time to come, so that he may join his One in the halls of their people. But as the weeks turned into months, and the months into years, Dwalin had begun to wonder if he was cursed to live forever. Dwalin was almost 350 years old, now. An impressive age even for the sturdy race of dwarves.

It had been fifty years since Dwalin had last basked in the beauty of Thorin's smile.

Fifty years since he had ceased to live and merely existed. 

The only time the life seemed to return to his ancient bones was when the anniversary of Thorin's birth came around, and Dwalin would make the long walk down to the tombs. Ballads would be sung about their love for many decades to come, and many would remember the white haired figure of an aged dwarf making his way towards the entrance to the crypts, and the bundle of blue and purple blossoms clutched in his hand. 

None of them could have assumed this would be the last time the son of Fundin visited Thorin's tomb. 

Dwalin felt his eyes grow heavy as he folded himself over the marble carving of his One's forever sleeping body. He had felt the coming darkness for many days, now, and now that it had arrived he embraced it with open arms. 

The last thing Dwalin knew in this life was the brilliant blue of the forget me nots.

The first thing Dwalin knew in the next life was the brilliant blue of eyes that had haunted his steps for fifty years.

Thorin's hair was as dark and glossy as it had been in the days of his prime, and when he smiled at Dwalin his eyes crinkled with warmth. He looked just as Dwalin remembered him; proud and regal, with veins of silver in his hair and eyes alive with the energy of a hundred dwarves, looking upon Dwalin with a fondness that couldn't be matched by any other. 

Dwalin realizes they're outside the mountain of Erebor, and he's spread out on his back in the soft grass that grew by the outer gates before Smaug scorched the earth black with his greed. Thorin is kneeling beside him, both of them dressed in the soft brown breeches and tunics of their younger years, and Dwalin can feel the warmth of the sun on his face, the soft touch of the breeze against his skin.

It cannot be a dream, for he has never experienced such a vibrant vision is his long lifetime. 

If it is a dream, Dwalin hopes he will never wake from it.

His hand was shaking as he slid his fingers up through his beloved One's thick black hair, desperate to feel him and be convinced that this was real, sighing softly when he feels warm skin and soft braids beneath his fingertips. 

"You're here. You're really here, my treasured One," he murmurs, and his voice shows no sign of the age he had known in life. It is young, and strong once more, and Dwalin knows that he has finally found his way to the halls of his ancestors.

Thorin smiles secretively when Dwalin's fingers encounter something foreign in his hair, letting his Consort sweep the heavy dark braids aside so he can see the delicate blue bud tucked behind his ear.

Even now, centuries after the first day he laid eyes upon Thorin, son of Thrain, he still had the power to steal the breath from his lungs.

Dwalin gently takes the forget me not from his love and spins the stem between his fingers, watching the coy little grin that spreads across Thorin's face at his expression of pure delight.

"After all this time, my loyal One?" Thorin asks softly, his voice filled with warmth and affection as Dwalin braids the forget me not into his hair, reaching out to cup his palm against the warrior's scarred cheek.

Dwalin chuckles softly and pulls the braid to his lips, staring back into the impossibly bright blue eyes he had loved since they were small.

"After all this time, my King."

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the German legend that says when God was naming the plants and flowers of the world, a tiny, unnamed flower cried out 'forget me not, O Lord!' and God declared that would be the flower's name.


End file.
